


Arms Behind

by Hopetohell



Category: Night Hunter (2018)
Genre: Bondage, Flogging, Mild Blood, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Smut, Strappado Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:34:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27131212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: Walter in bondage is a beautiful sight. He is driven to surpass himself, to make you proud.
Relationships: Walter Marshall (Night Hunter)/You, Walter/Reader
Kudos: 6





	Arms Behind

“You’re sure? How long we go isn’t important. And you know I won’t tell you anyway.” Walter nods, tightly, already trying to reach for calm, already chasing the pain haze. 

“I know. And it’s okay, I mean, that you won’t say. But you’ll know.” He’s pulling his arms back, straining the muscles of his chest, tits on full display. It’s a good look. He bows his head to look at you under a fall of hair. Trying to make himself smaller for you. 

You bind his wrists and pass a hand over his elbows. “Here, too? It’ll hurt.” He blinks then, mouth falling open. Pleading with his eyes but not for mercy. And so you bind him there, too. 

His toes wiggle against the tile; he rotates his ankles a bit to feel the cuffs around them, to feel the way the bar keeps his legs apart. He’s open, vulnerable, even before you begin winching his arms up. It always takes him by surprise, how eager he is for this. He’s sheepish, almost embarrassed, but he’s also been ready for it since you walked in the door, angling himself closer and closer to the heavy eyebolt in the wall, the one driven fully through the studs, the one he can’t tear free (and he knows this from experience; god, you could keep him there forever and his blood already thrums with the thrill of it). 

But first. You pass the rope through the bolt, the quick-release knot forming without thought, not pulling up yet. Just enough tension that he knows it’s there. He closes his eyes, breathes out. Opens himself to what’s coming. Answers the question you haven’t asked yet, in a voice that’s thin and breathless with anticipation. 

“Til I’m bleeding. Please.”

And so you do. You start the stopwatch and slip it into your pocket, then set to work. At the first pass he sighs, relaxing into the pain. You’re not kind with the flogger, but nor are you gentle. The little knots bite at him, softly at first, then harder, until his chest is crisscrossed with red pain. Until he’s heaving for breath and moaning soft and steady, until your arm is sore and the sound of leather on skin becomes _wet._

_Perfect._ You gather his blood on your fingertips to paint his mouth red. To give him incontrovertible proof of damage. To pry his mouth open and pet his tongue, to tell him _even this is mine. Every word, every sound you make belongs to me. So you see? You don’t need to worry. Everything you are is mine and I will take care of you._

And then, with his chest still dribbling blood, pattering down onto the tile in a slow drizzle, you winch his arms slowly up behind him til he has to lean against it, til his nipples point to the floor. Beads of sweat start to form and roll down his body; they sting when they manage to find all his little cuts, as blood and salt combine to drip onto the floor. The drops form patterns, constellations, the stuff you see when you rub your eyelids hard. He’s mesmerized by the sight, drifting further into that sweet haze, until the strain in his arms becomes too much. 

And he’d never understood it before, the thought that simply _not moving_ could be so difficult. But it is; he burns with it. It comes in waves, pain pulling him back up just when he’s so close to drifting away completely, until at last he tires, at last his feet rock against the tile with the effort of maintaining balance. And you’re greedy, aren’t you; before you let him down you take a moment to pet at his shoulders, his back, to feel the muscle bunched up under your hand, to feel the warm way he strains under his skin. 

And he doesn’t cry, not until he’s free and leaning heavily against you while you massage his shoulders, diffusing the ache throughout his body. It’s soft and silent while you disinfect the wounds on his chest. It’s catharsis, brutally and bitterly vulnerable. It’s _well done,_ when you glance at the stopwatch and don’t tell him, precisely. But he sees how terribly pleased you are; now he knows that he can surpass himself.


End file.
